I think that most of you know that we here at the Monkey are big fans of Beer. I’m pretty sure that AB/InBev is about to award IJ a lifetime achievement medal to go along with his Hall of Fame induction in 1998 with Mongo about to receive his own HOF induction any day now. Oops, stand by, the ADHD just kicked in and I’m going to go on a little beer tangent before I get back to fooking cucumber beer, so grab a frosty one and buckle up.

One of the greatest all-time String quotes you will be shocked to hear involves beer. The stage — a fine summer Saturday morning at the Muni. We are playing in our usual 5-some and are in the 15th fairway. That last fact is important for a number of reasons.  First, it means we have 14 holes in (plus breakfast and range time), so we are pretty well there, if you get my meaning. Second, when you get to 15 you only likely have one more visit from the beverage cart before you are done with your round (ignoring any bonus holes or an emergency 9 of course), so managing your “fuel load” for the last 4 holes is key. Finally, given that there is typically a fair amount of cash resting on the outcome of the round and the Muni really is all about the last four holes (“tougher than a $7 steak at the Paddlewheel” comes to mind), the boys tend to get a little more focused on the game about that time.  Mongo and I are in the cart driving up to our balls in the fairway and getting ready for our approach shots to the green. Our favorite Muni caddie is hanging on the back of the cart for dear life (Mongo was driving).  Mongo will be first to play and he’s got that look. He smells the dough and he’s focused. He’s “tight like a tiger.”  He turns to our caddie and says “[Caddie name redacted to protect the innocent], whadda we got?”  Now if you are are a golfer you know that Mongo was asking for the yardage to the green so that he knows which club to hit.  Well, that is what you would be thinking unless you were caddying for our group on a Saturday morning on the 15th hole at the Muni.  Without missing a beat the caddie replies: “5 Bud Heavies and 3 Bud lights,  we should be good.”  We were rolling on the turf.  I think the rest of the group thought we were both having grabbers.  2 guys, 8 beers, 3 and 1/2 holes — about right.  That fine young caddie received a full scholarship to a fine institution of higher learning and, honestly, that quote probably put him over the top.  I tried to figure out a way to put it in to his letter of recommendation, but had to settle for “unparalleled situational awareness.”

Now back to fooking Cucumber Beer.  Yes you read that right, cucumber.  Now don’t get me wrong, I like cucumbers — in my fooking salad, not in my beer.  Most of last year, the Muni had a solid rotation on its taps of a traditional lager, two microbrews and Miller Lite for Connie.  (Connie is crotchety old fart so it’s easier to just dedicate one of the taps to his favorite beer as it’s not worth all the bitching and whining that would ensue if that one got changed as well.) Now for some reason, one of the taps has Cucumber Kolsh.  First, they didn’t even spell Kolsch correctly.  Maybe because no self respecting German would ever put cucumber in beer.  There is a law in Germany, a real, honest to god law,  the Reinheitsgebot, which says:

“Furthermore, we wish to emphasize that in future in all cities, markets and in the country, the only ingredients used for the brewing of beer must be Barley, Hops and Water. Whosoever knowingly disregards or transgresses upon this ordinance, shall be punished by the Court authorities’ confiscating such barrels of beer, without fail.”

That’s right no fooking Cucumber.  I know what you are thinking:  “But SeaDick, what if it tastes good?”  Well let me dispel that concern.  It doesn’t.  It tastes like cat piss (or what I imagine cat piss would taste like as I have never actually imbibed that vintage).

Let’s get rid of the Cucumber and get back to first principles.  Beer doesn’t have cucumber in it.